To The Fire
by Tobi Tortue
Summary: Even for an immortal, the adventure of life goes on. This part of the never-ending story includes fire, moonlight, pizza, and even a rather average lawyer.
1. Prologue

**To The Fire**

**Prologue**

* * *

><p><em>In ashes of despair, though burnt, shall make thee live.<em>

-Sir Philip Sydney

* * *

><p>She had been living since the day he died.<p>

_Truly_ living, not just experiencing. She liked to think that perhaps, she had been living before then, back when he was alive. Some evenings, when she sat up late at a kitchen table with a cheese pizza and a bottle of wine—classy, she knew—she would think back to those two years. The most influential ones in her long, long life.

It wasn't to say she spent most of her time reminiscing and living in the past. No, she was living in the present now—he would say the future—and it was only those rare late nights, usually when she was between lovers and jobs, that she felt like staying up to remember.

That crazy kid….

She had probably really been in love with him. She felt a half-smile form on her lips, and shook her head, taking another languid bite of cheesy goodness. She leaned against the chair, flopping her head of green hair back and staring at the ceiling. It was white, rather boring. Nothing at all like the ceilings back at the Emperor's palace. Not as interesting to look at as the ceilings in the various vehicles used by the Black Knights. Though, it _was_ better than the ceilings of the hotels she had shared with Kouzuki that year.

The thought of the redhead made her smile, and she nearly spilled her carelessly held glass of wine. It had been the invite to the wedding that had brought C.C. back to Nunnally's New Pendragon. Orange had passed it along with his semiannual crate of citrus, and there was no way C.C. would miss throwing the girl a bachelorette party. She had confidentially informed the groom that she was invited only because she had been the stripper at said party. She visited them periodically for the next few years, and found it satisfying to think that he had never known the real reason. Blonds were fun.

She had known a few of her own, too. This time she did laugh, setting down her wineglass so as not to spill it. Poets were crazy—nearly as crazy as Lelouch had been—but fun to keep around because their affections involved many silly rhymes. They were rather like musicians, she mused, but without the ability to keep a tune. She snorted, and took another bite of pizza. She could find herself a musician, try the groupie life for a while. She wasn't sure if it was really her style… or if she really had a style.

Someone else would cheer her up, at least. She hadn't had much cheer since Sylvan's death. She sighed. Such was life… and as usual, she buried a tiny bit of jealousy. She wouldn't begrudge that man anything, and that had been over two years ago. Two years was time enough for life to change—Lelouch had taught her that.

She drank her wine. Yeah, a musician. She should look for a good one—maybe someone with a reputation for being a nice boy. She liked that, sometimes. A nice boy would treat her like a nice girl, and she always got a kick out of making a nice kid blush. But it wasn't likely she'd find that type in a band. But a school? Definitely a school. A library would do the trick, but if it weren't a college library, she ran the risk of some offended old lady calling the cops on her. But if she wanted someone—a nice boy—she could probably just walk naked into some university's law library…. She laughed again. Maybe she would, and make up some outrageous story to go with it. Life was only living if she did something she had never done before.

She could tell the shy, flustered kid that she had just escaped from a fairytale, that her wicked stepmother was stalking her, that the only way to outwit her had been to burn everything she had been given—including her clothes. She paused for a moment. She'd need to have something like a cape of stars to pull that one off. She smirked, and finished her glass of wine. She lifted the bottle to pour herself another, and then just raised the bottle to her lips.

See Lelouch? Life was fun.


	2. Chapter 1

**To The Fire**

**Chapter 1**

* * *

><p><em>In everyone's life, at some time, our inner fire goes out. It is then burst into flame by an encounter with another human being. We should all be thankful for those people who rekindle the inner spirit.<em>

-Albert Schweitzer

* * *

><p>"Wh-what?" he asked, mystified by the mysterious green-haired woman before him. A broad swath of cleavage showed from the V that her silvery cape created as it wrapped around her, leaving only her slim calves and her bare feet to poke out beneath it. He wondered if she were absolutely naked underneath it, and if that hair was also green.<p>

"I'm from a fairytale," she repeated.

He didn't want to believe her, and at the same time, he really _really_ did. "That's impossible," his voice said, all too plainly for the occasion.

She shook her head, and it was true that her golden eyes looked somehow timeless. Ageless. "No, it really isn't."

"You're lying," he said, and he inwardly cursed his logical mind. Too much law literature, he decided, had caused his imagination to fizzle up and die.

She quirked a half-smile at him. "If I told you I was trying to hide from my wicked stepmother and that the reason I'm naked is because I have to burn all my possessions or else she'll find me… now _that_ would be a lie." He could see the outlines of her knuckles as she wrapped the silvery cloth around herself tighter. Her toenails weren't painted. He hadn't seen a girl with her toenails not painted since he had gone through puberty. But it looked natural on her.

He wasn't sure what to say to her, though. "Fairytales… aren't…" he began slowly, searching for the right word. "Real." It was true. Fairytales were something that was made up. It was in the definition.

But she shook her head, and her long green hair cascaded across her shoulders as if its locks alone could capture some kind of magical breeze in the still air of the library. "Ah, you _are_ young, aren't you, boy?"

This, coming from a girl who looked to be sixteen. Eighteen, at best.

"No, not terribly so," he replied, finding it difficult to concentrate on her words when he wondered if she were old enough to sleep with him. "Only kids believe in fairytales, anyway."

"Nope," she said, sighing and resting her hip on the table he was working at. She pushed her rear onto the table, sitting there with her legs dangling comfortably over the edge. He had the distinct feeling that she was in fact nude except for the blanket…cape… whatever it was, and her hourglass shape was quite clear despite the wrinkles and folds in the cloth that covered her.

"It's the young that believe them. The old… we are the ones that _live_ them."

She continued swinging her legs as if she were a child waiting happily on a bench. She wasn't looking at him, and it seemed as if she wasn't really speaking to him at all. Rather, it was like she was announcing some kind of truth to the world, to all who wished to hear it.

He wasn't exactly sure why, but he was listening.


	3. Chapter 2

**To The Fire**

**Chapter 2**

* * *

><p><em>Words are only painted fire; a look is the fire itself.<em>

-Mark Twain

* * *

><p>She had disappeared before the library closed at 2 AM. She had told him more self-declared lies about her wicked stepmother, and then somehow they had started talking about religion. He didn't think his mother, who was a simple but devout Christian, would take kindly to the mysterious girl's views, but he wasn't his mother and he hadn't minded hearing the girl's opinion. There was something serene in her voice when she talked, something honest yet far away in her faint smile.<p>

She had the kind of eyes that made him wonder what she'd seen.

He thought about her a lot, in the days and weeks that followed. He had reported the encounter to his friends, who had all laughed and applauded their campus for its weirdness. Maybe the school _was_ built on an ancient temple or burial site, or maybe she had been high. Maybe _he_ had been hallucinating, had imagined the fairytale girl with the bright green hair.

His studies continued to occupy his time, but whenever he paused to take a break—either for a snack or just to flex his hands in an attempt to avoid carpal tunnel syndrome—he found her face appearing in his mind's eye. She had nothing to do with hidden assets or anything else in his casebook. His studies were filled with banal, dry lines of text about court rulings and legal definitions. She had been the complete opposite—an ethereal, nighttime visitor with a lilt in her voice and a Mona Lisa smile. The more time that went by, the less sure he was that she had even been real.

And yet… whether or not she had been real was slowly ceasing to matter. Real or not, it seemed as if something had changed within him. Not that he wanted to end his legal studies, needed a girlfriend, or desired to start playing some kind of interscholastic sport. He was still perfectly content and motivated to move between his apartment, his classes, and the law library with his few best friends and fellow students. He was in the habit of going to a local Irish pub every Friday night, and sometimes he went for a brisk walk or a slow jog around the lake on the weekend. His was a good life, filled with everything he needed. He wasn't opposed to meeting a girl, but he didn't feel that one was necessary. He didn't hate the idea of joining the soccer club a few of his friends were in, but he wasn't sure he had the time for it. He really was living his life the best he could and he was happy with it. When he finally graduated, he'd have to pay back his parents and his student loans, but he was going to be a _lawyer_ for crying out loud, so he could make it work out. His summer internships had panned out really well for the past few years.

So why was he thinking about his life on a grand scale so often lately? Was it just that time of year, that point in life? Or was it… the girl? His life, which normally felt so full and rich, had suddenly seemed to be missing the mark by just a hair's breadth. She had shifted some kind of axis that his life revolved around, had changed his world into something that wobbled slightly, that even if it didn't approve of her or include her, at least was aware of her existence.

He thought about her when his mind was relaxed, when he wasn't trying to think of anything at all. Was she somehow infiltrating his mind through the collective unconscious she had spoken of? Of course not, because that was ridiculous, and he didn't buy into organized religion, anyway.

And yet… there was a tiny, hairline fracture there, in the mirror that reflected his world. She had placed it there, and now that he knew he was looking into a reflection, a tiny part of him wondered what was on the other side. What did the _real_ world look like? What would happen if the entire mirror shattered?

Nearly a month passed with these thoughts running idly through his head during the moments he least expected it, though they did pass through his mind with less frequency as time wore on. And she appeared again.

"You," he said, realizing that he had never known her name, despite wondering so much about her existence.

She was dressed this time in black, though her belt and jewelry were silver. Her long hair was entirely unbound, just as it had been last time. "Who else," she said, her lips curving into a knowing smile.

He had been right about her figure. Her breasts were large to the point of distraction, especially when clothed in the stretchy black material she was wearing. Her jeans were skinny, her wide silver belt slung across her hips. She gave him a bemused smile and slid onto his table as she had done last time.

"You haven't changed," she said, cocking her head to the side. A bright silver earring flashed before disappearing behind her green hair again. "I like that."

He wondered at her meaning, and then found himself disagreeing for some reason. "You don't know if I've changed or not," he said, his hands continuing to hold his book open as if he were only a few seconds from returning to his studies. He wasn't. "And I think people are only interesting because they can change."

She laughed, and her voice reminded him of a smooth, worn bell. "You haven't changed enough for me to notice, boy."

"Well, we've only met once before…" he replied, trying not to stammer as he defended his statement. He was never like this in debate, and there were a few hotties in his class to distract him just as her body was distracting him now. But it was more than just her clingy outfit and her well-proportioned hips and chest. There was something otherwordly about her very nature that seemed to throw him off guard. "And I don't even know your name."

She slid her arms behind her, leaning back like some kind of Playboy model. Her hair was touching some of his reference books. "Do you find me interesting, boy?"

He blinked. Normal people responded with their name when it was brought up. "Certainly," he said. There was no point in lying, especially when her posture conveyed the idea that flattery might put her in his dorm room in the next few hours. He wasn't the kind of guy to sleep with a complete stranger, of course, but she had been on his mind a lot, they had talked about religion even, and all he really needed was her name.

"How ironic." She rolled her back down onto the table, her head coming to rest on his binder and the book on top of it. Her hair fanned out to the sides, splaying across his open book and brushing against his hands. He wondered if he'd have the courage to have sex with her in the library, or if the courageous thing to do would be to say no. It was late, past midnight, the lighting was rather low and there was no one else there.

"What's ironic?" he asked, his voice pleasant and curious.

"I've been this way for a very long time," she said, staring up at the ceiling. He wondered if she saw the same one he saw when he stretched and looked up. "All of my fairytale existence, I have been just like this."

"I doubt it," he said, looking at the green of her hair on top of the faded black and white of his book.

"But you don't believe in fairytales," she reminded him, sighing. She pulled her booted feet up to rest on the edge of the table, and the studded straps on the black leather gleamed.

"It doesn't matter," he said seriously. "I don't believe you've always been like that, fairytale or no."

She peered at him with her distant golden eyes. He knew she was scrutinizing him, but what she was looking for was beyond him. The moment was lasting much longer than normal, but he remained calm and serious. Perhaps he could use this moment to discover her, as well?

Her eyebrows were the same green as her hair, her lips slightly parted, somewhat moist. She thrilled him in a purely sexual way just as she was—sprawled carelessly across his schoolwork, as if she were some kind of law student fantasy come to life. He imagined she would be the kind of girl who would do kinky stuff in bed, and could talk about sex openly without embarrassment. She also sent a shiver into his belly when he considered her on an intellectual level. He wasn't sure if she was high on drugs or profoundly wise, and it irked him a little that he couldn't tell. She was definitely an enigma, and one that walked on heeled leather boots.

She dropped one leg and sat up, her eyes widening slightly. She never took her gaze from him. "You're right."

He blinked, having forgotten what they had been talking about. Ah, yes, fairytales and whether it was possible to stay the same.

She laughed again. "I'm wrong, and you're right."

He shook his head slightly, finding her laughter contagious. "If you insist."

"I _have_ changed. I just… forgot it for a while," she said, smiling broadly. She hopped off the table, and he wondered if she was going to leave. She hadn't been there for more than ten minutes. "Thank you."

Perhaps the girl was more crazy than anything else. He shrugged. "I'm not sure what you're thanking me for," he said honestly.

"For reminding me that I don't live in a fairytale anymore," she said. He shook his head at her and shrugged.

Twenty minutes later, he had enough confidence in the mood and he had finally built up his courage. The walk back to his apartment was quiet, but it was one of those spasmodically breezy nights that made him hold his breath when he glanced towards the stars. She walked a few steps ahead of him even though it was clear she didn't know the way, as if she were some guide from Faerie to lead him astray. After climbing the stairs to his apartment, she had suggested they order pizza. After eating with as much abandon as a male her age and even more delight, she dragged him by the hand towards his own room. She was playful to the point of roguishness and straightforward to the point of boldness. Pillow talk centered on the nature of humankind and whether wishes really could come true. The next morning, she smiled and told him she had had a good time. She seemed more human in the cloudy 9:00 light, with her hair not yet brushed.

She rose before him, and thoroughly teased his roommate simply by walking into the kitchen without pants. According to him, she had seemed unconcerned and amused at her own sex appeal. She shared the cold, leftover pizza with his roommate, talking without the usual awkwardness belonging to a roommate's one night stand, and then returned to the bedroom to throw a pillow at him.

"I bet you're skipping class, you naughty boy," she said, and then proceeded to dress herself fully. If not for the empty box of pizza and the incredulous look on his roommate's face, he could have dreamed up the second encounter just as he had thought he had imagined the first.

She told him she didn't have a name, and he… while he hadn't believed her, he had accepted her. Theirs was a strange relationship, if it could even be given that name.


	4. Chapter 3

**To The Fire**

**Chapter 3**

* * *

><p><em>It isn't necessary to imagine the world ending in fire or ice. There are two other possibilities: one is paperwork, and the other is nostalgia.<em>

-Frank Zappa

* * *

><p>It had been at least a year since he had last seen her. His senior thesis was somewhere in the pages of notes and case studies and dictionaries on the table in front of him. Only a few more weeks, and it would all be over. He had never felt this kind of stress in his life. Sometimes he wondered what normal, non-law people did instead of this hell, but most of the time he convinced himself he was proud for coming this far and that he was going about it all the right way. He had finally dropped his habit of procrastinating, after all.<p>

She had only appeared in a few dreams, ghosting through his subconscious like the fairies that don't show up in photographs, and now she rarely swam through his unguarded conscious mind. He was plunged deep in the waters of legalities and inevitable run-on sentences, and it took most of his effort just to keep from drowning under the hull of his own thesis.

Everyone talked about their post-graduation plans when they weren't studying. They favored a different bar now, because they had discovered its delicious cheesy fries, but the Irish pub was still the backup. Only one of his good friends had dropped out of the law school, and had instead joined the police academy. He had seen a girl for a few months, but it hadn't worked out. It had been more of a fling, anyway, for them both.

Life was good, and perhaps so much the better with the green-haired girl absent. He didn't have the time to waste thinking about her, and there had been enough time since their last encounter that remembering it brought fondness without any sadness. It was the kind of nostalgia one feels for a shooting star. She had lit up a tiny portion of the world for a brief moment and then disappeared, and he was left wondering if he would ever see the likes of her again. But he wasn't even into stargazing.

He was into legalities of property and historical artifacts, as a matter of fact. When did people stop owning things? What could be inherited, and what could only be left to a higher power, such as the government? In the grand scheme of things, death was just one way to pass on wealth, belongings, and ideas. His thesis centered on ethical responsibility as it relates to determining whether artifacts of cultural value stay within families or become property of a public institution. It was quite a mouthful, and he disliked explaining it to people who weren't law students.

The case study he was looking into described some kind of artifact that he was entirely unfamiliar with. It was of cultural value to a very limited community, and held in the hands of a family whose ancestor had more or less stolen it. But it was prized as an heirloom by the family. Who was right?

He sat back in the chair, tapping the stylus of his touchscreen against his lower lip.

"The only thing that changes is the amount of books."

She always arrived when he least expected her. This evening she was wearing a short skirt with leggings and boots. She wore long sleeves that didn't attach to her shirt, and her hair was in a high ponytail. It still reached the small of her back.

"That's not true," he replied, sitting up. "I'm much smarter than last time, too." He smiled at her, thinking that perhaps it was time for a break anyway. Not that she would let him do otherwise, he reasoned.

She nodded with a smile, and leaned against the table. "It occurred to me that I may want to see you again," she began, staring out into space when she spoke. "So I had to come back to see if you were still here."

It had never occurred to him that she would actively seek him out. A shooting star, though it may grace only one viewer with its dazzling display, never plans to be viewed. It never waits until a certain person is looking at the night sky.

"I am now, obviously," he replied, and then looked carefully at the books and papers strewn about. This library _had_ been like a second home to him for quite some time. "But not for long."

She nodded. "Things change." Her eyes were still timeless as she passed her gaze across him. "I was thinking that I like that about you."

"You always say I never change enough for you to notice," he responded dryly. He wondered what he would think of her if she ever lost her mysterious qualities, if she suddenly became the kind of fickle, wishy-washy girl that changed her mind every few days just because she could. Was it that he had grown up a little in the past year? Or was it just that this time, the third time, he knew her more than last time? Was her mystique vanishing?

"And I do like that about you," she confessed easily. She stood, surveying him as if she stood a long distance away. "You change a little, but not too much." It was obviously a compliment, but he wasn't sure exactly of its meaning. She continued looking at him, as if his face were something highly prized and nostalgic for her.

"I was thinking of returning to my fairytale for a while." Her voice was offhand and nonchalant, but her eyes gripped his. "I went to the gateway of my past, but I didn't open the gate. I saw, there…."

Some true emotion flashed across her brow then, and the distance vanished. She seemed young, human, and real. It was like years of time were erased when he saw the heartache in her eyes. And he wondered again what those golden eyes had seen.

She shook her head, and smiled to herself. "I thought of you, and I decided I wouldn't go." She smiled guiltily. "I was hoping you would be here."

He nodded, and wondered what was going to happen to him now. Was this a confession of love from a girl who he barely knew and considered at least half-mad from whatever Wonderland she had seen?

"Just so we're clear," he said, finally pushing away his books and staring at her with a sigh. "I'll need something to call you, even if you don't have a name."

She nodded, the smile playing across her lips. It was the same meaning but a different shape every second.

"And I'm really busy right now. I have to finish my thesis, and I can hardly think about any thing else for the next few weeks," he added sternly.

Again, she nodded, taking a step closer.

"And I'm poor, so don't expect me to take you out a lot," he went on, his mouth working on its own as if it were trying to dissuade her from whatever it was she really wanted him for.

But she nodded again, her grin becoming catlike and superior. It was as if she knew exactly what was happening to him, as if she could see the disconnect between his heart and his mouth.

She held out her hand. "See two."

He placed his hand in hers, utterly confused by what he was getting himself into and why he was allowing himself to get into it. "Two what?"

She grinned and laughed. "No, that's me. The name I use." She drew the letters on his palm with a cool, smooth fingertip. "CC."


	5. Chapter 4

**To The Fire**

**Chapter 4**

* * *

><p><em>The most tangible of all mysteries—fire. <em>

- Leigh Hunt

* * *

><p>Some time after graduation, C.C. brought him to the gateway of her fairytale. The gate glowed along with the tattoo on her forehead, the red light shining almost pink. She held his hand and then shook her head with a sigh.<p>

"I'd like to show you the other side, but I'm afraid I can't bring you there," she said wistfully.

He took a step back. "It's fine," he said, and he meant it. He was still having trouble with the knowledge that C.C.'s forehead glowed and pulsed with the same light that illuminated the doorway. He was still confused about why such a massive doorway existed in this unusual and hard-to-get-to cave.

She released his hand but gave him a hug. "I could always tell you about it," she said, her breath warm against his ear as the light slowly faded and they were left in the dim light that filtered in from the rim of the cave. "If you decide to believe in fairytales."

"I'm still not sure that I do, but I'm dying to know anyway," he said, wrapping his arms around her. He brought her up out of the cave and to the picnic blanket they had set up on their way in. The basket was still there, not that there had been anyone nearby to disturb it.

"It's a place where I can see my memories," she explained, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. He passed her a bottle of water, and said nothing. She had said once that his silences were easy to read. "On the surface, it all looks just how Charles and Marianne and I left it," she said, the wistfulness spreading through her voice when she spoke the names. He had never heard her speak anyone else's name before, and he wondered who this Charles guy was.

"It's a staircase, leading into the sky. The sun is always setting, or rising—you can never tell."

It sounded like a place that could only exist in a dream, or perhaps a memory as she said.

"There are long pillars from the platform at the top of the stairs, but there's no roof. The sky is below you, too, and it's always orange. Pinkish orange." She took a drink of water, and then twisted the cap back on and flopped onto the blanket. He still liked the way her hair fanned across the ground or whatever surface she was lying on.

"If you break it, and go below the surface, there is a room filled with masks. The walls are made of gears that continually turn. You could also say the room is built by time and filled with lies. Charles never really saw deeper, but Marianne and I… and Lelouch, too….

"Memories are on the third level, in a great palace that Marianne and I built. We hung our memories on the walls like paintings. There are hallways there that belong to me, and later, I built another castle. I go there when I feel most lonely."

"What's in the other castle?" he asked, not sure if he were only playing along with her fairytale story, or if he believed it all on some metaphorical level.

She sent him her mysterious smile, and laughed. "You think I'm ready to give you all my secrets now?" He could tell she was teasing him, but after asking, he wasn't sure he was ready to know.

"Is it impossible for me to find out for myself?" he asked instead.

She nodded, still on her back and staring up at the sky. He had realized that she had a thing for watching the sky. "The World of C really is mine alone," she said softly.

She was absolutely crazy, but for some reason she had become important to him. She was a part of him, in that she did all of the things his logic would never let him do. She said the things he was too rational to say. She had been with him for several months, and in that time she had remained a beautiful mystery.

He knew now that he didn't ever want her mystery to disappear. He loved her—love was a strange emotion—because she was never what he expected, even though he recognized her patterns. She always felt just outside his reach, even though she was constantly beside him. He had decided that she was both profoundly wise and slightly insane, but somehow it resulted in a quiet, quirky genius. He liked that. She was unique. Spending time with her was like reading a good book—on that didn't have any end, nor did it particularly strive towards one.

He decided right then, for some reason, that he wanted to keep reading for the rest of his life.


	6. Chapter 5

**To The Fire**

**Chapter 5**

* * *

><p><em>A woman would run through fire and water for such a kind heart. <em>

- Shakespeare

* * *

><p>He liked the way the ring looked on her finger. He liked knowing that he had put it there. Most of all, he liked the way she admired it when she thought he wasn't looking. She smiled like a little girl when she saw it, and stroked it gently with the fingers of her opposite hand.<p>

The same firm for which he worked had also hired one of his friends from college. They had been placed on the same floor, but their workstations were across the room. Still, it was nice to have lunch with a friend every day, and then to come back to an apartment where a lovely and mysterious fiancée was waiting. Sometimes, she'd come to his building, to meet him and walk home with him like they were some kind of medieval, countryside couple and his office downtown was a field at harvest. Heads always turned when she sauntered past with her long green hair flowing out behind her.

"You never seemed like the guy who was going to get hitched right after college," his friend said one afternoon. The breakroom seemed very white and the low hum from the water cooler did nothing for the room's atmosphere.

He shrugged. "I guess it's the sort of thing you can never know until you meet the right girl. I just happened to meet her a lot sooner than I thought I would."

His friend chuckled. "Still… I dunno, man, it seems like you've moved pretty quick with her," he said, downing the rest of his tiny cup of water.

"It's hard to put into words." He thought about it for a moment. "She's not like any other girl I've ever met. It's like she comes from another world."

His friend laughed harder at this, probably more at his amazed, slightly dazed expression than his words.

"My best wishes, of course. The wedding's in the spring, isn't it?"

He nodded, and they returned to their desks. His had a picture of her on it, along with some books and his touchscreen. He went back to work, trying to figure out whether the client still owned a piece of history or whether that history belonged to everyone.

The following afternoon, he introduced her to his friend. The three of them had lunch together, and she was as confident and beautiful as she had always been. But her profound mystery seemed hidden, somehow. It was as if only he, who had seen her in the dark library in nothing but her cape of stars, could see past the exterior of normalcy and glimpse a castle filled with painted memories.

Her sense of humor was dry, and she always surprised him with her grasp of politics. Combined, the two aspects made for a delightful lunch conversation, especially because they all shared political preferences.

"I used to be involved in the government," C.C. said wistfully, her face catching a golden reflection of the sun on the water. Instead of returning to the office with his friend, they had decided to use the ten extra minutes of his lunch break to walk by the lake.

"I didn't know that," he replied, mesmerized by the glow surrounding her. But it was true that he knew very little of her past. Wonderland, or whatever was beyond that glowing gate, was a fairytale he wasn't sure he was allowed to know.

"Yes. I was an adviser, of sorts, to men and women with great power." She stopped, leaning on the railing of the boardwalk. He leaned beside her, looking at her rather than the lake. She turned her golden eyes to his, smiling mischievously. "I bet you'd like to know what I told them to do."

He smiled back and shrugged in response. If he sounded too eager, she always toyed with him. "I can't force you to say anything," he replied, and then looked out at the lake, at the windy ripples and the afternoon light reflecting from them.

"Oh, but it was long ago in a distant country. It is so far removed from here that it doesn't exist anymore," she said with a laugh. She twirled around and leaned her back against the railing. "I am beginning to think I can care much less about it now." Her eyes flashed over him, and he felt himself almost physically drawn towards her. "I have much better things to consider." Her voice dropped lower, was suggestive of many things, the nearest being a very warm night after work.

He kissed her, quickly and affectionately, and then tugged her hand, causing her to rise from her half-lean against the railing. He glanced at his watch.

"All work and no play?" she laughed, smirking as she walked her fingers up his arm.

"I could say the opposite to you," he said dryly, peering at her over his shoulder at the fingers.

She rolled her eyes, pushing him gently towards the lake until his lower back met the railing. "I've done my time. Didn't I just tell you I used to work in politics? Where do you think my inheritance comes from, anyway?"

He shook his head, sighing. "When will there be proof of this mysterious inheritance?"

"Marry me," she said seriously. "And then we'll buy—"

"I know, I know," he interjected, pulling up her ringed finger and holding it between them. "A big house with a green front yard. And a gazebo by the swimming pool. I'm already on it."

She nodded. "And a hill—"

"From which you can see mountains," he finished. She had always been specific and vocal about the way in which she wanted to live.

She leaned up to kiss him, but as he closed his eyes, he saw hers widen. She frowned, staring at something in the distance. No, she wasn't looking at all, he realized.

"C.C.?" he asked, holding her gently by the shoulders.

"It smells…" she began, closing her eyes and taking in a slow breath. "Like war."

He had no idea what she meant.

But he followed her as she led him by the hand along the waterfront, away from the office and past the place where the boardwalk ended in steps and allowed the waves to lap peacefully along the shallow shore. She hurried, ignoring everyone—the retired man trying to keep his dog from running off, the young athlete who nodded as she jogged ahead of them, the skulking, smoking teenager whose feet clunked heavily on the wooden boards behind them—everyone but him as her grip tightened.

The behavior was so unlike her that it worried him. He thought about giving her hand a squeeze, or a tug, and then putting his arms around her. Whatever it was that she was thinking they had to get away from, it wasn't so—

She threw him into the water as the shock wave hit him. The water splashed around him, not quite drowning out the roar of the explosion or the rumble of the flames that accompanied it. The water was only inches deep, and it was C.C. that pressed against him from above, so that only a slim patch of skin on his face felt seared by the hot air. He felt her shudder, her nails digging into his wrists as she held his arms under the water.

His mind was having trouble processing the event, still caught on her words… _like war…._

He would have shouted her name but her damp hair created steam in his mouth. The weight of her body lessened, the gravel under his back shifted, disappeared—she was pushing them into deeper water. Her body kept him under the surface of the lake water, even when he would have normally become buoyant enough to float.

He felt disoriented, confused, and as if he were dying for breath. He needed to be away from the boardwalk that was undoubtedly on fire. He hooked an arm around hers and kicked with his feet, shuffling them further along the bottom of the lake. The water in his ears subdued the crackle and roar of the nearby flames.

C.C.'s grip loosened, and all that he could see were her long waves of green hair, separated by lines of blue sky and black smoke. Further into the lake. His lungs were burning, not from heat but from lack of oxygen. He dared not come up for breath so close to the dock—each brief moment his hand broke the surface it felt scorched.

He kicked and tugged and maneuvered the two of them away from the fire. His head was spinning, and he wondered about C.C.. Finally, his head broke the surface and he pulled in air that was cooler, only slightly mixed with water and smoke.

Flames leapt from the boardwalk alongside a few, insistent screams. There was dust in the air, swirling in the heat and smoke. He squinted, treading water with C.C's chin on his chest and her arms over his shoulders.

She wasn't moving.

Her hair was burnt. The long, green strands were blackened at the edges and in large patches. Some was coming loose in the water as he panted and choked for air. Her eyes were closed, her nose still under the water.

She wasn't moving.

He tried to change his position, kicking hard as he used one hand to lift her chin and the other to slide across her back. His hand on her back met soggy, melted fabric, and a surface that was too spongy and slick to be her skin.

He felt nauseous.

The back of her lovely head, her beautiful shoulders, her delicate back… all peeling off. He had the sudden feeling that she was floating away, melting from his arms into the lake. The fire roared behind him, the smoky air entered his lungs, but C.C. was already melting away. The darkness in the water was her blackened skin, once so pale and smooth.

He recalled the feeling of her pressing down on top of him, the searing heat along his cheek, and her nails digging into his wet wrists.

He nearly sank under the water as he puller her close again, her head lolling against his ear as he cried and coughed.

C.C. had died for him. Why had she done that? When he knew that she was so much more special than he was….

He did not drown that day, but instead managed to tow both their heavy bodies ashore. His legs and arms were leaden weights, and C.C. was an unwieldy piece of lovely, lovely driftwood. He wasn't sure where his mind was anymore.

There were crews all around the boardwalk, putting the fire out. A crowd stood behind a line, staring and snapping photos with hushed voices and occasional gasps. Would this be the freak accident people would watch online in their spare time? He felt dizzy and sick. He collapsed on the shore, yet unnoticed.

"Travis?"

He heaved out a sob, and then only seconds later did he realize it was her voice.

"You're okay, aren't you?" she asked, her voice small. It sounded like it came from a place of immense pain. He placed a wet, shaking hand on her cheek and looked into her beautiful eyes.

"We're going to get help for you," he reassured her, pushing a lock of hair away from her lips. "You're going to make it." He trembled as if freezing.

She rolled her eyes. "Of course I am," she replied weakly. "But please don't call for help," she said, lifting a finger to his lips with a wince.

He blinked at her in shock. She wasn't going to pull some line from a movie, accept her end, something like that?

"I suppose I never mentioned why your life is much more precious to me than my own," she said, smiling a small, mysterious smile.

He shook his head. "If you try to convince me to let you die here, C.C., I'm not going to," he insisted, but before he could yell for help, she forcefully pushed his jaw closed.

"I'm not going to die." Her voice was resolute, her expression distant. "I have not been mortal for a very long time. Please, don't call anyone."

Her words had been true, and they had gone quickly and quietly to the apartment. Doing so had been the logical thing to do, but it had taken his emotions and the rest of his normally functioning mind several hours to catch up to the day's events. He had cried again, and he hadn't been sure whether it was because she had nearly died or because she was still alive. He was certain he disliked that she had been put through so much pain and almost death for his sake, but when she countered the sentiment with her immortality, he had to concede to her logic.

Still, he disliked that his precious C.C. had been so easy to throw herself in the way to protect him. She should look out for herself, whether mortal or not. He did not want to see her in pain, especially for his sake.

"You are too kind," she said, wrapping her arms around herself. She had been perfectly smooth and beautiful again by the time they had reached the apartment, and only more intoxicating after a shower, passionate sex, and a meal consisting of only wine and dessert. She was wearing nothing but a loose comforter and the ring he had given her.

He shook his head. "No, that's not it. You're…" he began, giving in to the urge to throw his arms around her. "You're so much more than I am, C.C.! Out of the two of us, _you're_ the one that makes all the difference. Without you, I'm just an ordinary guy. You're the 'extra,' the part that makes it all extraordinary. You're my fairytale. I'm glad that you're not dead, of course, but I wish you weren't immortal. It's so complicated."

She leaned into him, and he rested his chin on sweet-smelling space between her neck and her shoulder. Her breath was warm on his neck.

"You're right that you're the one who should sacrifice herself for me. You have that gift. But I don't have to like that. I wish _I_ were the immortal one, because you are already special in so many other ways. It seems so backwards that you would throw yourself into the fire for someone like me! I should be the one throwing myself to the flames for _you_."

She did not try to argue with him. Instead, she breathed deeply and pressed herself closer. The comforter was crushed between them.

"That is why," she whispered as wet drops trailed down his skin. "That is why you are more than I am."


	7. Chapter 6

**To The Fire**

**Chapter 6**

* * *

><p><em>Fire that's closest kept burns most of all.<em>

-William Shakespeare

* * *

><p>He loosened his tie as he entered the kitchen, his eyes adjusting to the dim candlelight. Yes, there was the bottle of wine that should accompany a darkened setting such as this one. There was the girl, as full-bodied and warm as the bottle beside her. Her hair fanned over the back of her chair.<p>

Her thighs peeked out from underneath his long white shirt. She had the sleeves rolled up, and her panties were black.

But there was something delicate in the air, something less sultry and more tenuous that laced through the atmosphere around her. She didn't turn to him when he entered.

"Even I have my moments of weakness."

Her words echoed, and he smiled easily. "I know." He leaned over her, giving her a quick peck on the cheek. She didn't move, until after he took a few steps away. She sighed, stretching languidly like a cat that has been napping and plans to continue doing so.

He picked up the bottle, glancing at the brand and the year. It wasn't the cheap kind. He set it back down and picked up her not-quite-empty glass. She sighed again as he swirled the liquid, smelled it, and took a sip. Definitely not the cheap kind.

"I was going to order pizza," she said, her voice still drenched in melancholy notes. "But then I thought maybe I wanted something else."

"You dwell a lot on the past, don't you," he said, opening the fridge. Its light pierced the dusky illumination from the candle placed at the center of the table.

"It's difficult not to." He could hear the rustle of her clothes—his shirt, really—and the slight thud of her chin on the table. "There's so much more past than present," she murmured.

He fished out a beer, and put a hand on her shoulder. "How about we sit on the couch?"

She nodded, and he took the bottle of wine with them. She carried her glass, and clung to him after sitting down. She made a small noise of contentment as she leaned into him with her eyes closed. Her hair was draped across her shoulders, pooling in his lap.

"You knew I was thinking about things from long ago," she stated.

He shrugged. "Pizza is related somehow." It was true. If her mood was low and her lips uttered the name of the Italian food, her mind was wandering the halls of her castle of painted memories. She had the habit of cryptically saying names he didn't recognize, and then beginning the a sentence with "I used to…."

She smiled and burrowed her face in his chest. "I see. But I have to think about them from time to time," she said with a reluctant sigh.

He drank some beer, the liquid delightfully cold after a long day at the office. It went surprisingly well with a beautiful wife in his arms.

"I can't remember them any other way."

"Who?" he asked. He wondered again what was locked in the castle she had built later, what memories she had stored away from all the others. What exactly was on the other side of the gate that only immortals could cross?

"One was the first man who truly loved me," she said, and he felt a jolt of jealousy. His hand tightened reflexively on her upper arm, massaging it a little more firmly than before. "The other dedicated his life to preserving a peaceful world."

This second man was far less threatening, but still… the story sounded interesting. She was always full of interesting stories. (Even he had been caught up in the story of the gas leak and subsequent explosion by the boardwalk.) Here and there he had heard bits and pieces of her life. A trek from one country to another, a story of one friend or another, or a tale of one myth or another. So it had seemed to him that her life was disjointed somehow, that rather than a chronological line passing through eras and stages like the rest of humanity, she emerged whenever she pleased, taking moments from whenever and wherever she liked.

To hear of a first from her… was like refocusing her in his mind's eye.

"How else would you remember them other than a wine and pizza party?" he questioned gently.

She laughed slightly, deep in her throat. "It's more the pizza than the wine," she confessed. "When I lived with him a long time ago, I always ordered pizza. People called me 'Pizza-Woman.'" She sighed, rolling and squirming until her head was lying in his lap and she was staring up at him.

"But most people—in fact, everyone else that has ever existed—I can speak to, in the World of C." He remembered her saying something like that before, and was reminded of the castle she had built that he had never seen. "If I stand at the top of the steps, and look across into the clouds, I can hear their voices. But I can never hear the voices of those two." Her eyebrows drew together.

"I wonder, then, if he was so hated that even that world rejected him. And if the other was cursed…."

He waited, listening to her words as if it were an interesting story. He probably lived in a state of suspended disbelief. And in such a tale, it wasn't surprising that there be a curse.

"Maybe they never died," he suggested.

"What a horrible thing to say," she replied sourly, and he looked down at her in surprise.

"Their deaths were nearly as important as their lives." She sighed and then stared up at him hopelessly. "And immortality is not something to wish upon other people. It is not so romantic as one might think."

"_I_ find it romantic," he teased, leaning down to kiss her. She remained exactly where she was, and he was unable to reach. After a moment, he gave up and went for the beer instead. After a long drink, he opened his mouth again to speak.

"Do you compare me?" he asked, finally. "To them?"

She didn't answer him right away, and he had the feeling that if she had, he wouldn't have believed her. Instead, she closed her eyes, and her hair fell away from her forehead, leaving the bright red v-shape visible between strands of vibrant green.

"You will never be to me what Lelouch was."

At those words, he wondered if he had not made a terrible mistake. He had married a woman who was more goddess than human, whose memories were longer and deeper than historical records. Who did she belong to?

Was she a member of the public, to be shared as she chose, living in the moment? Did she give equal parts to each era? Was she culturally important now?

Or was there a weight to the past, to a certain man that came before? Was this stronger than the present life he shared with her?

All his schooling and training could not answer the questions for him. There was nothing like a precedent, and no ruling he could make that would come into effect.

But she placed a finger to his lips, stilling his expression and his racing thoughts. She still had the same eyes, and the same luxurious and delicate mouth.

"I have a secret," she whispered, wriggling upright, so that she sat in his lap comfortably. Her chest pressed against his arm, and her arms wrapped around his shoulders. Her breath was moist in his ear.

Her story that night was the most fantastic one yet. It took place in a world long since vanished, of knights and princes and empresses. A tale of revenge and grief, of conquering the world for a brief moment. It was a story that could not occur in the world as it was now.

But he understood that her fairytale was true. He knew enough of wars and conflicts, and for once he recognized the names. Lelouch and Zero, masks and witches and a wish known as Geass.

It was near dawn when she sighed, and spoke of oranges on the plantation, of riding across the country in a hay cart. He had listened carefully, had asked questions. They had eaten a snack in the kitchen, finished the wine and two more beers before returning to the couch. He could tell that this story was her greatest.

He was quietly content that her mystery still remained. She never spoke of why, and never revealed what lay beneath that polished mask. She had been Zero's lover, and then Lelouch's. She refused to explain why she had left one for the other, and she told him seriously that she had never gone back to Zero's side after peace had been won.

At the end, as the birds started chirping outside the window of the apartment and her voice trailed off into silence, he laughed. He held her teenage form close, and kissed her forehead.

"I'm sorry," she said softly, her voice muffled against his chest. Her hands felt tiny as they gripped his shirt.

"No," he replied easily, feeling strangely light. Normally, a man would be jealous to hear about the men his wife had spent her early years with. But their relationship had never been normal.

"Your boyfriends may have incited revolutions or conquered the world," he said, pulling back to stare at her lovely, golden eyes. "But I don't want the world."

She stared into his eyes, blinking once.

"I'm a pretty simple guy," he said, yawning as the day outside the apartment lightened. "I figure that I came out ahead of them—you _married_ me." He held her hand, brushing his fingers across her wedding band.

"So some day, when centuries have gone by, you'll meet some other guy. And when he asks you why you're sitting there eating pizza, you can sigh and smile that smile of yours." He held up her hand between them, his gold ring flashing in the dawn alongside hers. "And you probably will name all the people you've named to me. There'll be a whole list of all your old flames.

"But then you will slide your ring back on your finger." He paused, imagining the scene playing out to some stranger. "You probably won't say anything at all, but just play with it the way you do when you think no one is looking."

She blinked, a crease forming between her eyebrows. Her eyes seemed to be liquid gold. She buried her face in his chest and cried.

He held her gently, and then carried her to their room.

They slept in the next day, calling in sick to work, and spent the afternoon looking for a large plot of land. Within the week they had toured an area, hired a contractor, and the large house was under construction. The gazebo and the swimming pool would come after the house.

Just behind the house was a rolling, green hill. And when they stood at the peak, the sun burned over the peaks of tall, snow-capped mountains.


	8. Epilogue

**To The Fire**

**Epilogue**

* * *

><p><em>Since the house is on fire let us warm ourselves.<em>

–Italian Proverb

* * *

><p>She was living a life she had never really thought possible.<p>

True, Lelouch had been right all those years ago when he had suggested humanity live for the future. It still pained her that she never could explain to him that it all had worked out much better than even he had anticipated.

She set down her coffee at the table, soaking up the morning sun for a moment before heading through the cool interior of the house, towards the bright windows and the sliding glass door in the back. She walked around the stepping-stones, preferring the refreshing cool of the grass as she made her way to the pool. There was nothing like summer, even if Asta had invited all of her friends over and taken over the entertainment den the night before. They were all still sleeping off the pizza, cola, and scary movies.

Which left a quiet midmorning swim to C.C.. She slipped off her robe, tossing it casually on the lounge chair and then walked towards the edge. Her toes rested just above the water, curled over the smooth lip of the pool.

She had kissed Travis on the cheek before he had gone to work, had sent him with a notecard in his coat pocket that only had a latitude and longitude on it just to get him wondering. He might not have even noticed it was there yet.

The breeze rustled through the gazebo by the cherry tree, which was in full foliage and scattered with pinpricks of deep red. Already birds were flitting through the branches.

She dove into the clear water, remaining motionless as it streamed past her until she arched her back and her face broke the surface. She stared up at the sky as she floated.

Through the vibrations in the water, she could hear the sounds of the children waking up. They were likely wandering towards the kitchen, hoping she had made them something to eat.

She cracked a grin and closed her eyes. The sun shone down on her from above. She was cool from the water, but slowly warming up.

The glass door slid open. "Mom?" It was Asta's voice, and C.C. thought she could hear all fourteen years of love in it. That thought was overwhelmingly only in her imagination, but it was much more warming than the sun.

"Mom." Now the voice was properly annoyed, so C.C. lifted a hand to wave. The movement disturbed her peaceful floating, so she let her feet settle gently on the pool floor. Her shoulders broke free of the water.

"We're hungry," the teenager said grumpily. Putting on a show for her four best friends, who were all standing behind her in various poses of politeness or sleepiness.

C.C. laughed, popping lithely out of the pool and wrapping her robe around herself. She squeezed the excess water from her long hair as she stepped from one stone to the next. "There's a whole kitchen, Asta," she said, sweeping past the children, some of whom neared her own height.

"Yeah, but I wanted you to make a Britannian breakfast," her daughter said, flopping into one of the barstools at the counter.

"There's five of you," C.C. replied, picking up her coffee mug and taking a drink. It was still warm enough or she was lazy enough that it didn't need to be reheated.

"Yeah, but I'm the only one that's ever been forced to use a stove," the girl said, rolling her eyes. "And the recipe's so complicated."

C.C. surveyed the team of girls in the kitchen. They could call her old-fashioned if they liked. She knew it was true.

She shrugged and turned to the fridge. "By the time I was your age," she began with a smirk, pulling out a box filled with delicious cold pizza. She could hear Asta groan and the thunk as her forehead hit the counter.

Pushing Asta's head away with the box of pizza, she opened it and continued, looking at every girl in the house seriously. "By the time I was younger than any of you, even," she said, opening the lid, "I could cook soup on a stove or an open fire, bake bread from scratch, sweep floors, scrub pots and pans by hand, and even clean dead bodies."

The bored and unimpressed expressions of the kids changed dramatically at the last accomplishment on the list.

"Yes, all that at twelve, I think." She took a large bite of pizza, and then took it, the whole box, and her coffee out towards the swimming pool.

Behind her, she could hear Asta beginning to explain how to use the kitchen, where to find the eggs, and why they should ignore her oddball mother. It brought a smile to her lips as she sat by the pool, listening to the chirping birds and the tickling breeze. The water lapped gently against the poolside. The sun warmed her toes and her face, drying her wet hair. The sky was nearly cloudless, reminding her of days long past and a hope for all the days yet to come.

She took another bite of the pizza, and then just set the whole box in her lap.

Hey, Lelouch, life was still fun.


End file.
